Of Rings
by Equilly
Summary: Celeborn the Wise hears a long-forgotten tale, twisted and transformed through the years, but at heart still the same as when it first came to be. Features the shaping of a young mind that goes on to foster western civilization. Complete.


Title: Of Rings

Rating: K+

Characters: Celeborn, Galadriel, Haldir, Aristocles (who is most certainly a real person)

Summary: Celeborn hears a long-forgotten tale that has been twisted through the years but at heart remains the same.

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><p>-Of Rings-<p>

_or_

When We Were Young

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><p>He made the mistake of agreeing to go to dinner with the other professors- or rather, the mistake was allowing himself to be seated next to one of the philosophy professors who launched himself into a determined monologue over their plates of congealing alfredo sauce that was as disgusting as it looked. He arranged a look of vague interest on his face and allowed himself to drift, but he returned to reality abruptly as the professor on his right- Carmichael, he thought- turned to him: "Ah, Professor Linwood- Caleb, excuse me," this in his crisp Jamaican accent, "have you heard this story?"<p>

He resettled himself, adjusting his vague smile. "I don't think I have. What did you say it was called?" The long endless years had refined his composure; once he had been blunt and forward, but those times had long since passed and he had settled into stillness. His hands were no longer those of a warrior, but rather those of a teacher, and sometimes he thought of himself of softening, rotting fruit, decaying at the core and slowly melting into limpid nothingness.

"The Ring of Gyges, of course," said the first philosophy professor (Rockwell, perhaps?), with a look of disinterested scorn.

"No," he said, "but it sounds familiar." Something stirred deep inside him, something of his old fervor, remembering old times, hard times, but in between the blood and the fear lingered snatches of something beautiful

It couldn't be, he thought, gesturing for Rockwell to continue, but then, the Greeks had always had a terrible time with names.

.

It was summer and he found himself staring out over the vast spreading orchards of his olive trees, sweat dampening the back of his neck. It was still and warm; motionless, he thought, and his mind wandered again to another place that he had imagined somewhat akin to these long, unmoving summer days. What would it be like to live in eternity, a perfect place, where all was set into infallible perfection?

He wondered how she could stand it, for surely she was a prisoner of that perfection. Still she might seem, but inside he knew- and he knew her better than anyone else- that she burned like a flickering, blazing fire, always moving, restless and seeking.

Summer tasted of wine and memory.

"Sir?"

"Come in," he said sharply.

Haldir stepped onto the balcony, raising his eyes at his lord's obvious displeasure. No doubt he would petition one of his brothers to take his place- it was not an easy task, acting as Celeborn's herald.

"A boy to see you," he said. "A human one."

"What other sort of boy is there?" When Haldir did not answer, he said, "Who is he?"

"Pyrilampes's son. Aristo- well, Aristo something." Even Haldir, who picked up languages more quickly than any other Elf in Celeborn's household, had trouble with the Greek names.

He went inside and found the boy Aristocles seated on a long couch and he tried to remember how old he was. No more than ten, perhaps.

"Master Aristocles," he said courteously. "Welcome. May I ask why I find you here when I believe your father remains still in the city?"

The boy did not flinch. "I wished to speak to you, Sir. I took a chair."

"Well, then," he said, hiding a smile. "I must compliment you for your ingenuity."

"You needn't if you don't wish to, Sir," said the boy.

He had to pause to consider this extraordinary statement. "Should I?"

The boy bowed his head. "No, sir, only my determination. For I had a question and my father said that only you knew the answer. I do not think he intended for me to seek you out, but I have heard that you do not often return to the city."

"I do not," he said, for he hated Athens: a sinkhole, made of winding, darkened, crowded streets. Even the open expanse of his villa could not compare to the lands he had once known, but he found solace in caring for the soil, in flinging what little power he had over the land to renew it.

One of the Greek maids came in on soft feet to bring them a dish of fresh figs and generously watered wine. He drank a little, offered Aristocles some, and asked, "What is this question?"

"I told my father that our city is unjust," said Aristocles so boldly that Celeborn had to hide a smile behind one hastily raised hand. "Innocent people are put to death and the guilty set free. Every day, our government fails our people." The boy's face was burning with some sort of fierce light.

"And your father thought _I _had an answer to this?"

"No, sir. Do you?"

"Of course not."

"I told him that we should have one leader of Athens instead of a Senate that cannot make up their minds on anything. He said that that person would inevitably become greedy and corrupt, but I think he is wrong."

"_Ai_," he said. "He liked that little story of mine, did he?"

.

"There was once a shepherd Gyges and he was a man of Lydia who dwelt in the hills tending to his flock. One day there was a great earthquake that smote open the hills and he discovered a cave and inside it he found a great bronze horse containing a corpse who bore upon his finger a gold ring. The man Gyges took that ring and discovered that by turning it, he could become invisible.

"Now he was filled with wonder at his newfound power and he contrived to be among the shepherds sent to the king to report on the flocks, and there, using his magical ring, he slipped past the guards to the queen's chambers where he seduced her and, with her help, killed the king and crowned himself lord of all Lydia."

"From the _Republic_, is it not?" said Professor Carmichael.

Rockwell looked very put out that his story had been recognized.

"Gyges?" said Celeborn. "I thought his name was-,"

They all looked at him and he sat beneath the yellow light of the restaurant looking down at the congealing mass of alfredo sauce on his plate and wondered why he had stayed behind.

.

The boy sat very still. "But surely not all men would do as the shepherd did, would they?"

"Even the strongest of us will wear beneath such power," he said. "You will find there is a darkness in us all, Master Aristocles."

"_All _of us? Even you?"

"Even me," he replied.

.

He had seen it, of course. The puny little Hobbit could not hide it from his eyes, ad for a long moment he was breathless with need. He could take it- surely he could use it, for was he not Celeborn the Wise? Too long he had scorned these rings, hated them, this reserve of power, but now this one beckoned to him, practically begging to be taken from its sorry little bearer, and he knew he could.

Too long he had been nothing. Was he not in truth the lord of the Sindar, the true heir of Elu Thingol? Was he not one of the oldest elves left in Middle-Earth, and the wisest?

He could wield it well, he knew it. He had seen the ruin of Doriath, the death of so many whom he called beloved, and he knew he could use this ring for good. He could rebuild Middle-earth; he could defeat Sauron, and then it would be destroyed-

Destroyed?

Surely there would be no need-

And then he heard the slightest noise from his side and knew it was his wife, her eyes too sliding to the golden ring around the hobbit's neck.

And appalled, he thought, _Could I?_

_._

But the boy did not notice his momentary lapse in attentiveness; instead, he seemed lost in his own thoughts, his brow wrinkled, and then finally he nodded.

"I suppose so. There are times when I want something so much and I _know _it is wrong, but I just _feel _that I need it."

"I understand," replied Celeborn with the tiniest of smiles. "But you must understand, such power is terribly deadly. It entrances us and it absorbs us until we are nothing, reduced to less than the basest of living creatures, tormented and foul and demented."

A knock at the door; Rúmil, looking slightly anxious at facing his lord- no doubt Haldir had forced him to come- said, "Sir, Master Pyrilampes is here. About his son."

Aristocles's smile was small and timid and rueful. "I shouldn't have left, but I did want to hear the story."

"A pleasure," he replied. "You are a quick study, Master Aristocles. You will go far."

"My tutor doesn't think so," this pulling a face, "he thinks all I'm good for is wrestling and gymnastics. He calls me big and broad and stupid. And slow."

"_Platon_," he said. "Perhaps _playtes _would be better."

"Breadth," said the boy.

"Plato," he suggested.

A quick flash of a vulnerable smile and the boy Plato Aristocles bowed to him very deeply.

The father swept his son into his arms and from where they stood both Celeborn and Rúmil could hear their conversation:

"- the story of Gyges!"

"Gyges?" said Rúmil to him. "I thought his name was-,"

"Greeks," he said, turning away. "They can't even pronounce a simple name like Gollum."

.

"Interesting," he said.

Outside the night was warm; summer, still and heavy with smog, and he inhaled the bruised, battered air.

There were other sorts of rings, too; the one he wore on his finger, a simple gold band he'd bought some hundred years ago, half as a symbol to others, half as a reminder to himself that she still remained, if only in his memory.

I have forgotten your voice; I have forgotten your laughter. I close my eyes and see only the curve of your cheek, the line of your mouth.

Come back to me.

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><p>AN: Because I read the story of Gyges for class today and thought it sounded like Gollum's story. Also because it's 12:35 in the morning and I'm not making much sense, so I'm not sure that this story will survive an in-depth survey at a time when I am more awake.

Historical notes:

On Aristocles/Plato: He was originally called Aristocles after his grandfather, but he was given the name Plato, either from the Greek word platon (broad) or playtes (breadth).

On Pyrilampes: Actually Plato's stepfather, but that's superfluous detail and irrelevant to the story.

5/6 September 2011

Edited: 29 September 2011

-Equilly


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